It’s been at least a hundred years since any doctor has made a diagnosis of manic-depression or schizophrenia based on the posistion of the moon in the sky (PMS notwithstanding) …. don’t you think after a certain amount of time a term could be changed from it’s archaic use to better reflect the knowledge we as humans have gained?
It’s been more than two years since a posting and I know for a fact there are at least three persons in the State of Florida who simply assumed I was trampled under in that Conneticuit (sp?) heavy metal death club (I know I’m an asshole, but I have to say the whole thing was very Darwinian - rockers who continue to sport the Eighties-doo, beware) or just possibly crushed under 100 million tons of the first World Trade Center … and yes, there will be a second.
Straight from the “We Thought You Were Dead Dept.” comes “Wednesday Again”, with a fond retrospective of bitterness past.
Returning from the limbo that has mysteriously claimed many of our columnists, Special Ed is back and he’s ready to SHILL for one of his favorite bands, Self! Can there be a higher calling in life? Wednesday Again.
Older, wiser, and may more pissed off about the dismal prospects of the upcoming Presidential race, Wednesday Again comes out swinging. Sniff, our boy Nathaniel Bishop is all grown up now…
Special Ed Sofield treats us to a discourse on the authorities’ abuse of your right to keep on breathing in Wednesday Again.
Now, just to explain, I’m normally not big on confrontations, but I’ll be damned to Tammy-Faye Baker hell before I lose six bucks to some tourist dollars Guliani-supported bread-and-cheese-in-a-box delivery service.
As hard as I try to look back on my childhood with glee, I just get a mental picture of a retarded blond boy falling down everywhere and generally making a fool of himself everytime I think of myself. I wasn’t just an idiot – I seemed to be completely unteachable. I would get jumped by neighborhood kids, get some rocks thrown at my face for good measure……and, sure as fuck, it would happen again.
I can’t use a knife and fork properly. I can’t seem to make myself believe that everyone isn’t watching me eat. I can’t can’t CAN’T stand it when people crack jokes about me (I know we spend half the night making fun of Mr. Can-aa-da, but this is me we’re talking about now).
For a masochist like myself, living in such a sunny climate might be the end of me…..I would start preaching on street-corners, and recruiting young girls to become my henchmen, my right-hand….well, not men, I guess……right-hand girls, yeah, girls…..my right-hand girls in the most ingenious plans ever laid out!
One of the editors seemed to disagree. Thinking that I had deserted ship, he dreamed up the most horrid, painful disgusting punishment ever inflicted upon a living human being. He put Morrissey on my page.
If you or your staff sees fit, this can be posted as the ramblings of a fucked-up son-of-a-bitch……if you correct the spelling errors, of course (it is time for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and her boyfriend’s new show, Angel……no way I’m gonna check for stupid-assed grammar and shit while that piece of work is on the air).
Every time I turn on the local college radio station and tune in to the hip-hop hour, between every song I get this itching in the back of my eyes….like “I should know better, just turn off the radio and don’t go along with the rest of the damn suburbanite kids ripping off perfectly good music that they should have nothing to do with….” And then the next beat comes in, some really cool samples and the poetry that old people refer either as “that noise” or, on occasion, as “rap.” And I’m lost in the noise…….
Spending so much time in such a relaxed, non-confrontational atmosphere has somewhat dulled my killer instincts. And now, of all places to relocate to, I pick New York City. That’s right, the Mecca of all Western Civilization, as an old friend once referred to it (that old friend now sells drugs in Washington Square Park, among other horribly communist and leftist occupations). There is speed in the water in NYC. This is not a lie.
This is applaudable. What is not applaudable is the proficious amounts of pornography and various hallucinogenic drugs they bring along with them. I have nothing against the porn (or the drugs, for that matter); however, a bus station is not a fun place to begin seeing the walls move inwards and outwards in time with your heartbeat.
The Frequently Asked Questions section of Nathaniel Bishop’s Wednesday Again. Or was that Ed Soffield? He tried.
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